said the housekeeper; "but he didn't leave
no message, except that it was for Madame
Ernestine."

"Did he not say who sent it?"

"No, mum. I asked him if there was
compliments with it, and the young man, which he
had top-boots on, mum, and a cockade in his
'at, said as there wasn't no compliments with
it, but there was half a dozen bottles of sparkling,
which was better, he thought."

The countess opened the hamper, and her
eyes gleamed with pleasure, not so much at the
dainties which it contained, as at the thought of
her rising fortunes, and the influence which she
was once more exercising upon the gay votaries
of pleasure.

"No matter," she said; "it is an elegant petit
souper, come whence it may, and I am hungry.
Let it be laid à l'instant. And that corbeau,
that ogre, that ganache, said I should have no
luck! Why, it rains luck—rains châteaux, benefits,
pheasants, champagne. Ha! what have we
here? Cognac. One bottle in the corner! A
good thought; vous êtes un bon enfant,
monsieur—you understand me—qui quevous soyez."

The supper was laid in the gilded apartment,
and the countess and Lily sat down together.
The countess ate and drank of everything,
condescending even to patronise the champagne, but
poor Lily could scarcely taste a thing. The
countess's declaration of her intention to make
her a horse-rider had completely taken away her
appetite, and made her feel sick and faint.

"Eat, child, mais mangez done?" the
countess said to her, almost fiercely, as she
herself gnawed wolfishly at the leg of a pheasant.

"I have no appetite," Lily said, languidly.
"I—I do not feel very well."

"No appetite!" cried the countess. "I
understand; no appetite ha! ha! You will
recover from that malady. Ma foi! when you
come to be my age you will have an appetite."

And she went on eating with her fingers, and
gnawing the bones, and almost snarling over
them.

"If you cannot eat, perhaps you can drink.
There, take some champagne. I will not grudge
it you. It cost me nothing."

She poured or flung rather the bright
bubbling wine into a tumbler and pushed it
towards the girl. Lily put the glass to her lips
timidly, and sipped at its sparkling contents.

"Drink it up—videz le verre," cried the
countess, angrily. "I have no patience with
such mincing pretences. Drink, I say!"

Lily, clutching the glass desperately, drank
its contents to the last drop in sheer despair, as
she would have drunk poison.

"Now, you may go; va-t'en—there is your
room. It was intended for me; but I have
given it up to you. You see how I love you—
what a good mother I am." And she grinned
horribly.

Lily was only too glad to obey. She was
always thankful when bedtime came, that she
might seek refuge from her sorrows in the
forgetfulness of a sound sleep, or in the unrealities
of a pleasant dream. She took a little candle
that had been placed on the side-table for
her, and retired to the dainty white chamber;
but she was too weary, too eager to shut
her eyes and bury her head, to do more
than bestow a languid glance upon its tasteful
furniture and neat appointments. She had eaten
scarcely anything, and the champagne which her
mother had forced her to drink made her heavy
and drowsy. She put out her light, and
undressed and crept to bed in the dark. She
began to say her prayers—she never omitted
them, though she might have begun to think
that there was no ear in Heaven for her, so
often had she repeated them and yet no
deliverance—she began her prayers, but, as had
often happened before, when she was worn out
with her dragging-chain of misery, she lost herself
among the words, and fell asleep murmuring
them.

How long she had been asleep she knew not,
but she was suddenly aroused by a great gleam
of light streaming through the crevices of her
door. She thought for a moment that the
Cottage was on fire, and was about to scream
and give the alarm, when she heard her mother's
voice. She was singing

Gai, gai, gai,
Vive la gaudriole.

Lily listened, and heard her mother mixing up
the names of Milord Carlton, and Sir William
Long, and the Marquis Greyfaunt—le Marquis
Greyfond, as she called him in a succession of
nonsense verses, with the same gay, reckless
chorus. Anon, she broke into another strain—
French dithyrambics which need not be
repeated. They were about love, and bagatelle,
and cognac.

The light seemed to be growing stronger and
more intense, as if the room beyond were burning
fast. Lily rose from her bed and crept to
the door, which she had neglected to close. It
stood slightly ajar. She knelt down and looked
through the opening.

The countess, her mother, was sitting in the
gilded arm-chair, her feet resting upon the gilt
eagle which formed a footstool, holding a glass
in her hand, and singing. She had lighted every
burner in the great chandelier designed for halls
of dazzling light, and, in the midst of the gilding
and brass and lacquer and the blaze of gas,
trolled forth her reckless French songs. Lily
was relieved to find that the house was not
on fire, as she at first feared; but she was
inexpressibly shocked to see her mother in that
dreadful state. Her first impulse was to retire,
and once more hide herself under the bedclothes;
but she felt herself rooted to the spot as if by a
fascination. She remained gazing at the
extraordinary scene until the woman rose, and with
an unsteady step approached the door of her
chamber. Lily retreated immediately, crept into
bed, and feigned to be asleep.

The next instant the countess entered and
approached the bed. She paused for a moment